Never Gonna Come Back Down
by Sway1
Summary: I always wondered, How did the crew get together? Here's my take on how Sway came to join Memphis's group. PG13 for language.


Here's a short story of how Sway joined the group. It takes place a few months before the crew's downfall. I wrote it in kind of the style of a script. Also, Gone in 60 Seconds is my favorite movie, so I made my pen name Sway. This Sway in this fic is not me, but the character that Angelina Jolie (the best actress in the world) played in the movie. In the original script, Calitri was an old enemy of Memphis's, and I incorporated that idea into this story. Anyway, hope you like it!  
  
~*~*~  
  
Memphis Raines looks around the main part of OTTO'S AUTO: car garage during the day, as a cover, but a chop shop and boost center by night-its main purpose. His crew sits or stands around him in a rough circle.  
  
Atley Jackson has a hip perched up on an old stool on its last leg. Next to him stands the slick Harry Santoro, blowing smoke rings toward the high, peeling ceiling above. Freddie Dyer stands as he always does: arms crossed, head tilted up. Otto Halliway, proud owner of OTTO'S AUTO stands anxiously chewing a pen. Sitting backward on a plain wooden chair is the unfathomable Frankie Fish. Bill Doolin is looking at Memphis with an ironic look of expectancy. Donny Astricky is perched on another stool, with the Sphinx standing silent, dark, and grim behind him.  
  
"So, you gonna get started, Raines, or ya gonna stand there all night, looking at us like ya love us?" Harry Santoro flicks the cig on the floor at Memphis's feet.  
  
"Only you, Harry," Memphis says, squashing the butt and turning to the marker board behind him.  
  
There are 9 ladies scribbled there, with all but four crossed out: A Chevy Silverado: Sara, a Ford F350 4WD: Annie, and a Humvee pickup: Donna, and a Detomaso Pantera: Rose.  
  
"Here's the teams, boys," he says, and pointed to the Silverado. "Atley and Bill, you got Sara. Donny and Sphinx's picking up Donna. Harry and Frankie, Annie."  
  
"What?" Otto exclaims. "You got Rose? Shit, Memphis, you can't boost no Italian better then the rest of us. Take Frankie."  
  
"No. I work alone." Memphis pans the room with a stony stare, daring anyone to disagree. When no one does, he grins his contagious smile. "I'll be fine. I want the rest of you to drop us boosters off, then drive the rest of the ladies to Manday's yard. Gonna get fifty large. I'll do the dealin."  
  
"Gonna get us another boost?" This was Freddie.  
  
Memphis hesitates. "Well . . . I heard that Calitri's offerin five down and eighty large--"  
  
Donny whistles. "Damn, man; go get em before he gives it to Johnny B or Cracker's bunch."  
  
"--for twenty Italians."  
  
Silence blankets the dirty room. Greed makes their eyes shine, but the confusing, dangerous, almost intelligent systems of Italian cars makes them reluctant to agree. Hell, Memphis was the best boost known to man, and it was often more of a miss then a hit for him when it came to Italians. More often then not, he was almost caught for one reason or another: he couldn't find the alarm wires, he couldn't get the car started, or other such irritating details.  
  
"We'll have to think about it," Hank says finally.  
  
"Fine," Memphis nods understandingly. "Otto--Lowrider."  
  
Otto nods and turns on a cassette player. The Cheech and Chong song pours lucidly from the large speakers.  
  
A wave of relaxation flows across the guys. Everyone--discounting Otto-- immediately changes. Memphis raises his hands, willing the music to enter the pores of his body. Donny puts on his black hat and slides his fingers along the brim. Atley takes a deep breath and slips into his coat. Harry and Freddie delicately touch their tools, hidden here and there within their coats, while Bill slowly and carefully places his into the various pockets of his jacket. Frankie symbolically lights another cigarette. The Sphinx takes a deep breath, tilting his head back. It was a tradition, playing this before a big boost. More of a superstition by this time; every time they hadn't played this song before a boost, something had happened, be it a flat tire or a roll-over.  
  
Memphis checks the room. Everyone is ready. "Let's ride."  
  
~*~*~  
  
Memphis Raines, 30, rides shotgun to Freddie in a rented minivan. He is dressed in a leather coat, jack boats, a dark shirt, and black pants--his usual duds. He holds himself powerfully, with a whimsical confidence. This man knows cars better then himself, and there's hardly a car he can't boost. He's the best boost in all of California, maybe in the nation. He bases in Long Beach because it is the ideal stealing ground, mainly because of the rich jackasses that live here and the intricate system of streets.  
  
"So, how ya doin, man?" Freddie says, mainly to calm him down. The tension in here is so thick you could almost cut it with a knife.  
  
"Good. I hear that Otto's givin your niece a job."  
  
"Yep, startin tomorrow," he grins to himself. "She's some kinda girl, Memphis. She's loved cars since she was old enough to be born, and she's damn slick at boostin, too."  
  
"Freddie, you didn't," Memphis exclaims, looking at him sideways.  
  
He nods proudly. "That I did. Hank, my step-bro, didn't have a problem with me teaching her. The basics, anyway. She's fucking better then me! Maybe you've heard of her. Damn good at Italians."  
  
"Wish she were here now."  
  
"I don't think so; she's nineteen." Freddie slows the car.  
  
They are there. There's Rose, gleaming marlboro red under the harsh street lights, with sculpted side fins.  
  
"1971 Detomaso Pantera," Memphis murmurs.  
  
"Tell me bout her." The younger man always enjoyed Memphis recite a piece of his extensive car knowledge.  
  
"Incredible body design, with a 5-spreed ZF transaxle and a muscular mid- engine V8 more powerful then a Ford 351 4V Cleveland engine."  
  
Memphis smiles to himself. His father, a used car salesman, used to bring home a different car every night-or so it had seemed-before he had died. By doing so, he had passed on his encyclopedia-like knowledge of cars and his love of them to his oldest son.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Freddie drives off after Memphis's feet hit the wet pavement.  
  
Getting in is hardly a problem. Watch as Memphis takes a slim-jim from his coat and slips it along the window. He finds the lock, tugs gently, and it pops up. Car sirens wail.  
  
"YOU ARE TOO CLOSE TO THE VEHICLE STEP AWAY FROM THE VEHICLE!" a monotonous robotic voice repeats.  
  
Memphis hurries to the front of the car. This was his fear--it had all the anti-theft gadget and gizmos under the sun. He kneels in front of a headlight, using a screwdriver to pop it off. Any of the wires he usually used to trip up a system are gone. Shit, he thinks. We shoulda hauled it away to somewhere private to figure it out. Too late now.  
  
"Fuck!" he mutters. This was getting messy, too damn messy for his liking.  
  
Reaching into the car, he pops the hood. It flies up, slinging rainwater off in a sparkling fan. He searches for other wires, but, again, there are none. Getting scared now, he jumps into the luxurious cab, feeling under the steering wheel and pulling off a plastic shield. A bundle of yellow, red, blue, and white wires fall out. But no alarm wires!  
  
This was a customized vehicle, with every possible way for theft thought of and taken care of. Memphis had never seen anything like it. And of course he has to try and steal the only Pantera this tricked out.  
  
Figures.  
  
Why the hell hadn't he done his homework?  
  
Lights are flickering on in apartments above. Left with no options, Memphis is grudgingly and pissingly considering aborting. He hates aborting--the amateur's way out.  
  
"Well, if it ain't Memphis Raines!" a silky voice says in a teasing voice.  
  
Before a normal person can react, Memphis has a fist flying toward the open driver side window. To his surprise, it is caught in a strong grip-by a girl!  
  
She clicks her tongue shamefully and shakes her head. "You sure screwed this up, man. Pop the hood."  
  
"What the hell are you doing?" he demands angrily, jerking his hand away. This had never happened before, either.  
  
"Saving your ass," she says loudly over the alarm, looking impatient. "Now pop the damn hood."  
  
Memphis is faced with a tough decision: if he lets this girl, who can be no more then twenty-one, take care of the car, she could screw it up and put him in a worse situation, or disconnect the engine, purposely getting him in trouble.  
  
Or she could actually do the job.  
  
If I don't, he thinks, I'm screwed either way.  
  
"Fine," he says, pulling the hood handle. "But don't fuck it up."  
  
"No fucking clue," she says, rolling her eyes. She reaches into an inside pocket of the long coat she is wearing and pulls out a flat, gray plastic object with holes and buttons.  
  
Memphis leans out of the car to watch what she is doing, tensed to knock her to the ground if she makes the slightest wrong move. But she doesn't. She crosswires the engine by repluging some of the wires into the object, working with obvious skill and care. Then she punches a few buttons, and the voice cuts off abruptly in midsentence, as if decapitated. Memphis pops off the collar of the steering column, strips off mechanism, sticks a gizmo where the key normally goes, adds the screwdriver, and turns.  
  
The engine gives a feeble cough and dies.  
  
"What did you do?" he shouts, jumping out and stalking toward her.  
  
She flicks open a knife. "Back off, man. Jesus, you're touchy. I'm not done."  
  
"You bitch, you better not have--"  
  
"Ah, just shut the fuck up!" she snaps, a touch more then testily. "For being Memphis Raines, you sure are irritating."  
  
Memphis backs off a little. Watch as she leans back over the exposed engine, peels back the plastic covering of some wires, and touches the exposed copper of the metal with her knife.  
  
"Now try it, genius."  
  
He does, looking at her dubiously. The Pantera roars to life, with the throaty roar that only an Italian has. The girl closes the hood and steps back.  
  
"What are you doing now?"  
  
"I didn't want you to run over my toes," she says.  
  
Suddenly, the humor of the situation hits him, and he grins. "Just get the hell in."  
  
She smiles back as she walks around the car, and she has a nice smile. "Thanks. We'd better hurry. With all that noise, the coppers are definitely called."  
  
Memphis roars away.  
  
"I'm Memphis Raines," he says, reaching out a hand of truce.  
  
"I know," she says, accepting the hand.  
  
He waits expectantly, then finally prods. "And you are?"  
  
"Sway Wayland."  
  
The name sounds familiar, but he is unable to figure out why. Her grip is firm and warm.  
  
"Thanks for saving my ass."  
  
She nods, and says no more, only looks out the windshield. He has time to admire her--her long, light hair that shines in the streetlights; her smooth, fair skin with hardly a blemish; her dark exotic green eyes; her impossibly full lips that pout slightly; and the finest part: her slim, tight body, hardened with muscle--but only a moment. Black-and-whites come squealing around the corner in front of them, two of them.  
  
"Ah, shit," Sway mutters.  
  
Without flinching, Memphis shifts into neutral, bangs back the parking break, and yanks the wheel. The car spins around, tires squealing, stopping with the back bumper inches from the cop cars' front bumpers.  
  
He tears off. Sway is impressed. That was a tricky move, and damn smart too.  
  
"Nice," she says. Her voice is rich and succulent, like a fine-bodied wine.  
  
He grins. "Learned it by accident."  
  
"Say no more." She likes his pointy smile. It's sweet, devilish, and heart jumping all at once.  
  
He takes a hard left. The cops are still trying to turn their tanks around. The Pantera is gone before they realize it turned.  
  
"Where you goin?" Sway asks.  
  
Memphis has totally forgotten that it would probably be very stupid to take Sway to Manday's strip yard. To take a girl he didn't even know to a highly illegal chop shop on a highly illegal job-now that is just sloppy. "Somewhere you're not, kid."  
  
The girl tenses, but does a very good job of smothering her temper. "Look, I know you're doing a job for Jack Manday--"  
  
"How do you know that?" he asks, slamming on the brakes.  
  
She sighs. "Doesn't matter."  
  
"It would be very smart to tell me--"  
  
"Look, I saved your ass!"  
  
"I know, you won't let me forget!"  
  
He is obviously touchy about the incident-getting help from who he considers no older then a pre-teen. She tries to frown at him, but his suspicious glare is intense.  
  
"I won't tell you how I know," she says, getting out. "You'll find out soon enough. I don't even know why I got in in the first place. Would've been smarter not to, I guess. But this car--" she pauses, and runs her hand along the glaring red side so slowly and sensually that Memphis swallows. "Girls like this make me wanna be a lesbian." Sway walks around the car to Memphis's window and winks as she leans down. "I'm not, though. She's somethin like a unicorn to me. I bet you know all about unicorns." With that, she turns and runs lightly off.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Memphis Raines drives the Pantera into Jack Manday's strip yard, protected by a wood and chain link fence, with pointy swirls of barbed wire on top. There is an old crusher to one side, with some scrap metal piled around it, but it is rusty and unused. Manday's real business is inside the building, a chop shop. It is not the largest or most successful, but it is one of the best, and rich foreigners know it. That is why the ass is so well paying. Eight trucks are parked in the yard, along with the Ford F350 and the Humvee. Memphis has barely got out of the Pantera before Atley pulls up in the Silverado. A long white scratch flaws the black paint along one side.  
  
"See you got her all right," Atley says, shutting the engine off.  
  
Memphis hesitates. "I had a little help. The hell happened to you?"  
  
"A little brush-off with the cops." Atley shrugs it off. Memphis has to admire him; Atley Jackson is legendary for his veins of anti-freeze. "What do ya mean, a little help?"  
  
"Tell you bout it later. Otto and Frankie'll be by soon with our ride. Let's go get our pay."  
  
~*~*~  
  
"Memphis Raines!" Scott Manday says, patting him heartily on the back. "Another job well done. And you even got the Italian too!" He knows that Memphis and his crew are a little superstitious of Italians.  
  
"I had a little help," Memphis repeats.  
  
"I ran into the cops," Atley says. "Fucked up one side of the Silverado."  
  
"Good thing they're bein cratered," Manday says. He gestures to one of his goons, who brings over a patent leather suitcase. Inside was $50,000 worth of unmarked bills. "Nice doing business with you, man. Cars are on time, accounted for, and mostly undamaged. As usual."  
  
"Got any more boosts?"  
  
"No. Not any right now that are for your crew."  
  
Memphis shakes hands with him, and walks out, with Atley on his heels. Sure enough, Otto and Freddie are waiting in two rented minivans. They load em up and move em out, with Memphis sitting shotgun to Otto. Freddie is in the back with Donny and Bill, bragging about his niece.  
  
"And she figgered out how to boost Italians all on her own! She figured out the trick to em, and so I says to her, show me how, Sway, and she tries, but she starts talkin about companies and cars and spark plugs and the type of engine and even the kind of carburetors and all this shit. So I says, never mind, girlie, you just keep that un to yourself."  
  
"Hank didn't show her?" Donny asks.  
  
"Hell, Hank don't know a distributor cap from a headlight when it comes to an Italian. Now my Sway on the other hand--"  
  
"What's her name?" Memphis suddenly asks. He had been quiet the whole way up until now.  
  
"Sara Wayland. I call her Sway."  
  
"Ah, shit. Fuckin christ!" Memphis continues his curses as he rubs his forehead. "I'm such a goddamn idiot!"  
  
Everyone but Freddie is confused. He simply grins.  
  
"Don't tell me you did her in the back seat, man."  
  
Now everyone stares at Freddie, including Memphis. Suddenly it becomes clear to him.  
  
"Don't tell me that you told your little niece bout the boost!" he says slowly. It makes perfect sense. She came out of nowhere, and knew all about him and Manday, and boosted that Italian like it was 1960-something again.  
  
"What? Are you leaking, Dyer?" Otto snarls.  
  
"That ain't cool, man," Donny says in a low voice that is barely restrained.  
  
"No!" Freddie cries. "I just dropped a few hints to her, and she figgered it out herself."  
  
"Dropped a few hints, my ass!" Memphis says. "She knew everything."  
  
"She's a smart girl."  
  
"Jesus Christ, Freddie! And she's coming to work for me tomorrow." Otto looks petrified. "What if she goes to the cops? Think, you dumb bastard."  
  
"Now, just calm down!" Billy shouts. "When she comes to work tomorrow, I'll talk to her, kay? No need fighting if nothing's wrong yet. 'Sides, she sounds useful."  
  
"Don't even think about it!" Memphis says in a low voice. "She's twenty."  
  
"Nineteen, twenty in a month," Freddie says.  
  
"Wrong thing to say."  
  
"What does age matter if she's good?"  
  
"We're arguing over nothing!" Donny says. "What if she doesn't want to join our gang?"  
  
"She does."  
  
Memphis holds his head. "Christ!"  
  
This crew--his crew--was a responsibility he held very seriously. He watched out for his men; they were the best, he made sure they were the best. They all had their talents and specialties. All of them worked efficiently as a team. He wouldn't dare take in another member that would run a risk for the rest of his team. But, he also looked out for them on a financial level. Maybe, if Sway was as good as Freddie said, they could take in more boosts with more Italians, and triple the income.  
  
" Fine," Memphis says. "Calitri offered that Italian boost of twenty. I'll take her with me when I go talk to him. It'll be a trial run. But if she screws up--"  
  
"Which she won't," Freddie insists.  
  
"--it's your ass."  
  
"Fine."  
  
"Fine."  
  
Memphis huffs angrily. He can't seem to figure out why he is against Sway to joining his crew. If the girl got skill, fuck the age. Still, it seems wrong-mostly because he can't seem to get that tight body out of his head.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Don't forget to R&R! 


End file.
